If it’s wrong to press the vine—­
      Thus to make the rosy wine,
   Then it must be wrong to crush the wheaten grain;
      But we’ll laugh such things to scorn,
      And although it’s coming morn,
   Just join me in another drain. 
                Then quaff, boys, &c.

’E’e gow, lad! that’s a rare song.  Aw’ll say nowt noa moor abaat thy nooas after that, but tha munnot sing that amang teetotallers.  It’s thy call nah, let’s keep it movin, call for who or what tha likes.’

‘Well, if awm to call, aw shall call th’ landlord to fill this pitcher, for this pipe o’ mine’s varry dry.’

’All reight, lad, order it to be filled, aw’ll pay for it, an wol they’re fotchin it call o’ somdy for a song or summat.’

‘Well, aw call o’th’ cheerman for a song.’

‘Nay, lad, tha munnot call o’ me, for if awd to start ony mak ov mewsic aw should niver get throo it.’

‘Yo went throo th’ drum easy enuff,’ said one.

‘Eea, an’ he brag’d he could sing better ner awr conductor,’ sed another.

‘Nah chaps, aw’ll do my best to mak it a pleasant neet, an’ as th’ ale has just come up aw’ll give yo a tooast an’ a sentiment booath i’ one.’

      Hold up yer heads, tho’ at poor workin men
   Simple rich ens may laff an’ may scorn;
      May be they ne’er haddled ther riches thersen,
   Somdy else lived afoor they wor born,
   As noble a heart may be fun in a man
     ’At’s a poor fusten coit for his best,
   An ’at knows he mun work or else he mun clam,
      As yo’ll find i’ one mich better drest.

   Soa, here’s to all th’ workers wheariver they be,
      I’th’ land, or i’th’ loom, or i’th’ saddle;
   And the dule tak all them ’at wod mak us less free,
      Or rob us o’th’ wages we haddle.

‘Them’s just my sentiment,’ sed one o’th’ singers, ‘an’ aw dooant care who hears me say it, for aw dooant care whether a chap’s coit is aght o’th’ elbows or his britches knees brussen, noa matter if he’s——­’

‘Thee shut up,’ sed Seth, ‘it’s my call next, an’ aw want thee to know, owd fiddle-face, ’at tha can give ovver talking abaat fowks clooas, an’ sing as sooin an tha likes.’

’Mr. Cheerman, aw nobbut know one, but as sooin as aw’ve supt aw’ll start, shove th’ ale this rooad.’

’Get supt then, it taks more bother to start thee singin nor what it taks to start th’ Dyke Engin.’

All kinds of songs I’ve heard folks sing,
Of things in every nation;
Of Queen’s Road swells, and Clarehall belles,
And every new sensation. 
But I’ve a song you never heard,
Although the music’s ancient;
It’s all about one Doctor Bird,
And his fascinating patient. 
So list to me
And I’ll tell you all the story of this Doctor B.

One day he sat within his room,
By draughts and pills surrounded;
Strange pictures hanging on the walls
Which timid folks confounded. 
He heard the bell, and strange to tell,
He quickly changed his manner,
And in there came his bosom’s flame
His darling Mary Hannah. 
So list to me, &c.